Broken Beautiful Hearts(54)

The cover depicts a row of silhouettes, each carrying a large pack.

My gut wrenches as I read the title, hoping I’m wrong about the subject matter—and, at the same time, knowing I’m not.

The Things They Carried.

They. The soldiers on the cover.

With a trembling hand, I turn it over and skim the description on the back.

Groundbreaking.

War.

Memory.

Choppers.

Vietnam.

Bile rises in the back of my throat, and a firestorm of images from my nightmares rains down on me.

Dad sinking in the water—his heavy pack dragging him down. Water swallowing him as he thrashes. His hand raised, reaching for someone to pull him out, until he loses the battle and the water closes over him, as if he were never there at all.

Dad, hanging from a wire below a helicopter, focused and calm. The sound of automatic weapons firing, round after round. The helicopter jerking to the side as it is engulfed by billows of black smoke. The wire swinging, with Dad clinging to it. He’s reaching again, but there’s nobody left to help him.

I’ve had nightmares about those scenarios and all the other ways Dad could’ve died during a Recon mission. The nightmares started the day I found out my father was dead and I’ve been having them ever since.

But one nightmare haunts me more than the others, because it’s the closest to what really happened that day, at least according to Mom. She knows the whole story—all the details I’m too terrified to hear. The part she told me is awful enough.

Dad and two of his Recon “brothers,” on his fire team, moving silently through a crude stone tunnel, underneath a hotel in Fallujah. Darkness and the sound of their breathing, each time they inhale and exhale. In and out. In and out. The sound of the explosion inside the tunnel. He looks up when he hears an avalanche of rock sliding and cracking, just in time to catch a glimpse of the tunnel coiling before it collapses on them.

“Peyton?” Owen’s voice shatters the images.

I focus on his face—worried brown eyes searching mine—his forehead furrowed and lips parted. I drop the book like it’s radioactive.

Owen watches me for a moment without saying a word. In the background, Miss Ives drones on about the Pulitzer Prize and the canon of American literature.

“Peyton?” he tries again.

Say something.

But I can’t find the right words. Or any words.

“Do you feel sick?” Owen puts his hand on my wrist, and the weight of it combined with the roughness of his fingertips calms me.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “I got light-headed.”

His hand is still on my wrist, and I let the soft pressure of his fingers moving back and forth over my pulse point drag me out of what’s left of the tunnel.

“You should go to the health room. I’ll take you.” Owen’s hand slips from my wrist and moves to the back of his chair as he turns toward the front of the room. He’s trying to get Miss Ives’ attention.

“Please don’t,” I whisper.

He leans over the desk, keeping his voice low. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m okay. I swear.” I’m not and he knows it.

Miss Ives scrawls a name on the board. “The author, Tim O’Brien, was the only member of his unit to survive the Vietnam War.”

Like Hawk.

“In his novel, he tells stories and anecdotes about the soldiers who died—the men he never forgot.”

Like Dad, Rudy, Ghost, and Big John—the recon operators who died in the tunnel.

“O’Brien tells us about the things the soldiers carried with them—the physical mementos and reminders of home, like photographs and letters.” Miss Ives continues talking, but I can’t make sense of the words.

What did Dad carry with him?

Owen’s eyes dart to the worn paperback. “It’s because of the book, isn’t it?” he whispers, leaning closer. “That’s why you’re so pale. Is it your dad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I let my dark waves fall over my shoulder to hide my face.

“But he died in combat?”

“On a mission.” I touch the spot on my shirt where Dad’s dog tags rest close to my heart, under the fabric.

“You should tell Miss Ives. She’ll assign you another book.”

“I’m not telling her.” I can’t.

Owen rakes his hands through his hair. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He’s either worried or freaked out. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

The details I just shared with Owen are more than I tell most people.

The rest of the period passes in a blur of discussion about the author, the significance of the novel, and other things I tune out. When the bell rings, Owen follows me out of the classroom and we walk down the hall together. He doesn’t ask questions or make small talk to fill the silence. He just stays beside me, angling his body toward the hallway traffic so no one bumps into me.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Owen says as we pass the boys’ bathroom.

I keep walking. “I’ll be at my locker.” Burying this novel under whatever I can find.

I’m not paying attention when I get there.

April and Madison are a few lockers away, laughing and whispering. They’re probably talking about me. But then again, they seem to talk about everyone so who knows?